Hors saison (Off Season), 1999
At first glance, “Hors saison” (from the 1999 album of the same name) seems to be a specific description of the “off-season” setting of a seaside holiday resort, perhaps a place like Île de Ré off the western coast of France. The somber melody carried by piano and a bit of reflection, though, make its implications appear more inclusive. The depiction of the in-the-moment present scene of a deserted resort invites one to imagine the lonely contrast with yesterday’s buzzy seasonal activity as well as other analogous scenes. The descriptions activate all the senses of sight, sound, smell. Most important, the apparently specific setting of an off-season holiday resort evokes other more widely shared human experiences that elicit similar feelings: the hours of quiet after guests depart a family reunion; the emptiness of a concert hall after the audience has left and doors have closed; the solitude after children leave home to pursue their own lives; the death of a spouse; or the retirement from an active career for life's final season. Such transitional experiences evoke a similar range of contradictory sensations that, in combination, generate melancholia: emptiness, joy, satisfaction, loneliness, peace, quiet. The genius of art is to reveal "a world in a grain of sand" (William Blake).
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C'est le silence qui se remarque le plus Les volets roulants tous descendus De l'herbe ancienne dans les bacs à fleurs sur les balcons On doit être hors-saison La mer quand même dans ses rouleaux continue Son même thème, sa chanson vide et têtue Pour quelques ombres perdues sous des capuchons On doit être hors-saison Le vent transperce ces trop longues avenues Quelqu'un cherche une adresse inconnue Et le courrier déborde au seuil des pavillons On doit être hors-saison Une ville se fâne dans les brouillards salés La colère océane est trop près Les tourments la condamnent Aux écrans de fumée Personne ne s'éloigne du quai On pourrait tout prendre les murs, les jardins, les rues On pourrait mettre aux boîtes aux lettres nos prénoms dessus Ou bien peut-être un jour, les gens reviendront On doit être hors-saison La mer quand même dans ses rouleaux continue Son même thème, sa chanson vide "où es-tu" Tout mon courrier déborde au seuil de ton pavillon On doit être hors-saison Une ville se fâne dans les brouillards salés, La colère océane est trop près Les tourments la condamnent Aux écrans de fumée, Personne ne s'éloigne du quai |
It's the silence that's most noticeable The rolling blinds all down Old weed in the flowers pots on the balconies It must be off-season Still the sea, in its rollers, carries on Its same theme its hollow and stubborn song For a few shadows lost under hoods It must be off-season The wind pierces these long avenues Someone's looking for an unknown address And the mail is overflows on the doorsteps It must be off-season A city withers in the salty fogs The oceanic wrath is too close, The torments condemn it To screens of smoke And no one leaves the quay We could take everything the walls, the gardens, the streets We could write our first names on the mailboxes Or maybe one day people will come back It must be off-season Still the sea, in its rollers, carries on Its same theme its hollow song "where are you?" All of my mail overflows on your doorsteps It must be off-season A city withers in the salty fogs The oceanic wrath is too close, The torments condemn it To screens of smoke No one leaves the quay |
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